


Don't You (Forget About Me)

by heavvymetalqueen



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Angry Handjobs, Dissociation, Drug Use, Face-Fucking, Hypnotism, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mentions of torture and rape, and ocelot's torture fetish, angry make outs, mutual pining (the ocekaz way)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 14:37:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11830800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavvymetalqueen/pseuds/heavvymetalqueen
Summary: The easiest way is not always the right one.





	Don't You (Forget About Me)

Ocelot wasn’t expecting to put his dissociative and memory altering skills to so much use right after coming to Mother Base for good.

But he also was not expecting the state Miller was brought in.

Or to be more precise, how little his mind can handle seeing him...like that.

Ocelot has seen much worse. He’s _done_ much worse, without hesitation or nightmares afterwards. But it was never somebody he’d worked side by side with for almost a decade. Never somebody he’d seen cry and laugh, tasted the lips of, fallen asleep with.

Probably because there had never been such a person before he met him.

Miller always complicates things for him. And now, feverish and afraid, he calls for him every time he’s somewhat lucid, desperate, weak.

So every time Ocelot goes back to his quarters, he makes himself forget. He has a tape player with the right music. Both Miller and the Boss are too impatient for Pink Floyd, but Ocelot finds the slow progressions of their older albums take him to the right state of mind almost instantly.

The rest it’s handled by the drugs. A special concoction of his own invention, of course, borderline between medicine and poison. Puts him in a suggestive state of mind where he can push the immediate memories that are an obstacle to his functionality under the carpet of a few choice trigger words. He chose some Japanese Miller has taught him, perhaps for a sense of symmetry. They’ll come out eventually, one day. He’ll handle it when the time comes.

For now, he forgets, so that he can be back at Miller’s bedside tomorrow, cool and collected.

Forgets the gruesome details of the medical reports he browsed extensively. Hackjob mutilations gone infected and septic. The permanent retinal damage caused by the mist and the weeks of light exposure. The third degree burns on his stumps from intentionally careless cauterization. The organ damage caused by the drugs they pumped him full of. To make sure he’d stay awake and feel every moment of it while they chopped off his limbs and electrocuted him. To make him loose and pliant as they gang raped him for hours, days.

He sits down, and forgets the way Miller screams when the nightmares come, his broken Russian pleas to let him die, just kill him, not again, not again. Forgets the way he clings to him in the darkness, sobbing, the way his teeth are clenched when the morphine starts dwindling in his system.

_“Don’t worry about Kaz,” the boss had said “He’s stronger than he looks.”_

_“ ~~and if nothing else he won’t get in our way now”~~_

Ocelot pushes those voices he can’t quite remember hearing under the carpet, too.

And when Miller is finally better and the Boss is allowed to visit him and Ocelot is not needed anymore, he covers up the ache of being replaced with it as well, for good measure.

It will make things easier. He’s certain of it.

***

Miller doesn’t need to get up while Ocelot is putting the fear of god into Emmerich, and he’s been told so. His stern presence is more than enough to get the snivelly little shit trembling.

When Miller stands, however, Ocelot takes half a step back, and observes. He notices how much he’s leaning on his crutch, how heavy his steps are. He’s using his disability to be intimidating, and Ocelot is so proud of him he could just pinch his cheeks.

But then he starts toying with the controls of Emmerich’s robotic legs, and Ocelot swallows.

Miller is not a cruel man. He’s vindictive, but not mean. In fact, one could argue his softness of heart and sentimentality are the main reason he has put himself (and Ocelot by extension) into so much trouble. But right now, as he slowly turns the dial that lifts Emmerich’s leg, the smile on his lips is downright sadistic.

And it’s the hottest thing Ocelot has ever seen in his _life_.

Emmerich screams as his knee is bent upwards to the point his joint creaks. Miller drops the controller and stalks off, leaving him to whine like a crippled dog.

There is literally nothing Ocelot could do to stop himself from following. Conditioning, loyalty, mission, none of that matters right now.

He grabs Miller by the arm the second the door swooshes closed behind them, spins him around hard enough for his crutch to clatter to the ground.

Miller’s cheeks are flushed pink. Even through the aviators Ocelot can see his dilated pupils. He leans heavily against him, sends them careening against the wall for support. His hand is fisted tightly in Ocelot’s shirt.

“I thought my methods were reprehensible,” whispers Ocelot, already intoxicated by the humid heat of Miller’s breath on his lips.

“Not when it’s somebody with thousands of lives on his conscience,” he rasps back, pressed hard against him. He’s soaked in sweat, he _stinks_ , and Ocelot wants to kiss him so bad he’s going to die if he doesn’t.

“You can come along to torment him any time you want,” he groans as Miller’s thigh slots between his.

“I’m not like _you_ ,” he growls, and then they’re kissing, or maybe devouring each other’s mouths, it doesn’t matter, all that matters is Miller’s nasty cheap gin taste on his tongue, his stubble scraping his cheek.

“Everybody can be like me,” he says, words swallowed hungrily as his hands grope blindly under the trenchcoat. “They just need a good enough excuse.”

“Shut up, shut up, _shut up_ ,” snarls Miller, biting Ocelot’s lips until metallic blood floods his mouth, slamming his head back into the metal wall.

It takes all of Ocelot’s willpower to push him away. His body cries, _aches_ , all he wants is for this to end like it always used to end. Naked, sweaty, bloody, whimpering with pleasure and pain.

But that was before.

The Boss is back, now.

Ocelot is no longer needed to keep Miller well fucked and out of trouble.

~~he made sure of it~~

So he pushes him off, holding him at arm’s length.

Miller is panting, lips shiny red and sweat trailing down his temples. “Right,” he finally says, swallowing thickly and straightening.

“Right,” agrees Ocelot, feeling slightly nauseous.

He crouches down to pick up Miller’s crutch, slow enough that Miller can maintain balance by holding onto his shoulder. Miller takes it with a grunt that sounds like a thank you and unsteadily moves away.

“Nothing happened,” says Ocelot. “Don’t worry about it.”

Miller stares at him for a long moment through his aviators, and Ocelot can’t for the life of him figure out what he’s thinking. That’s a common problem he’s had with him since the seventies. “Yeah. See you later.”

Miller glances at him one last time before hobbling away, no doubt cursing his inability to make a fast exit.

Ocelot leans back against the wall. He takes a deep breath, stares up at the light overhead until his eyes hurt.

“Nothing happened,” he murmurs, over and over, slowly and rhythmically.

In a few minutes he’ll believe it, and life will go on as normal.

Just like it always does.

***

Ocelot brusquely steps out of his office, thinking only of getting back to his quarters. He has....things, he needs to do. Vague, formless things he will know how to do when he’s there.

He isn’t looking where he’s going as he rounds the corner and connects full body with Miller.

A year ago he would have gotten a bruised nose from connecting at that speed with Miller’s shoulder. Now, Miller topples over with a helpless yelp and a clatter of metal.

“Sorry,” says Ocelot, holding out his hand. “Didn’t see you.”

He’s expecting Miller to get mad at him and call him all sorts of colorful epithets, but instead Miller passes him the crutch silently, and when Ocelot has moved it to the other hand, grasps his forearm and pulls himself upright. Accepts the crutch being slipped under his arm with a nod.

“I’ll see you later,” mumbles Ocelot, now more than ever anxious to get back to his quarters. He has things to do. The more time passes the harder it will get to do them.

“Are you okay?” says Miller, uncharacteristically concerned.

“I should be asking that,” says Ocelot with half a smile.

He has _things_ to do.

“No, I mean,” Ocelot has to step back to let him gesture at his face without letting go of the crutch. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

~~maybe I was just talking to one~~

Whatever it is that’s making Miller so worried, it’ll stop when he’ll be back in his quarters. Doing his _things_.

“I’m fine,” he says mechanically, and steps past Miller.

He can feel his gaze on his back all the way to the elevator.

A few minutes later in the darkness of his quarters, needle still stuck between his fingers and a soothing drone of numbers and words erasing everything he said to the man in the radio that he doesn’t need to remember, Ocelot adds the encounter with Miller to the pile.

Next time Miller meets him, he’ll ask if he’s okay, Ocelot will be flippant, and Miller will get mad.

Eventually, he’ll stop worrying for him. And that will be for the best of everybody involved.

***

Ocelot is already asleep when the door of his quarters swooshes open and Miller stumbles inside. He almost reaches for his gun, but the sound of the crutch banging on metal stills him.

That, and the stench of cheap booze that instantly fills the room.

Miller drops heavily on the bed on top of him, with enough elbow and knee to the stomach contact to kick the air out of Ocelot’s lungs.

“Miller,” he growls. “This ain’t your quarters.”

Miller laboriously, clumsily straddles him, hand propped into Ocelot’s chest. His groin is hot. Ocelot doesn’t need light to know he’s hard, he can feel it even through the layers of clothing. “And I ain’t here to sleep,” he slurs.

“Then go to the Boss’ quarters,” says Ocelot, trying to push him off.

Miller doesn’t let himself be jostled so easily. He grinds his ass right on Ocelot’s cock, slow and methodical. “Maybe I don’t want to fuck the Boss.”

“Well that’s too bad, isn’t it? Because that’s your partner,” he spits.

~~I **made** him for you~~

“Never stopped you before,” hisses Miller, leaning over him. The smell of stale alcohol and sweat is nauseating. His body is so warm, so much Ocelot feels his bare skin is going to burn where he touches him. “’s not stopping you now. I can feel you. You’re hard for me like you’ve always been.”

Ocelot turns his head to avoid the sloppy kiss, that lands wetly on his jaw.

“What, think you're too good to fuck a cripple? Think you gotta treat me like a delicate flower like _he_ does?”

Ocelot pushes all his strength in his core to topple Miller over, pins him to the mattress. Miller sighs when he sinks his teeth into the base of his neck.

“This what you want?” he whispers in his ear.

Miller grasps his head and kisses him, messy and wet. Ocelot stuffs a hand up his rumpled shirt, drags his ass over his folded legs, makes short work of his fly. He’s not wearing gloves. He’s glad Miller is so drunk he probably won’t notice the drag of scars as he jerks him off roughly. He only lasts a few minutes before he comes in hot spurts over Ocelot's and his own stomach.

“Happy now?” grunts Ocelot, wiping his hand on the sheets. Miller just kisses him again, biting and sucking on his lower lip. His hand slides down Ocelot’s bare back, goes to clasp Ocelot’s ass.

“Miller.”

“Lemme fuck you,” he hisses in his mouth, and Ocelot’s breath falters. He’s not sure if it’s the thick, deep voice he hasn’t heard in so long, or the two fingers pressed hard into his perineum through his underwear. “C’mon. I know you wanna.”

He does.

He does he does he does he _does_.

But he can’t. He feels nauseous just thinking about it, an anxiety like he has never felt in his life. Everything he’s worked for will fall apart like sandcastles if he lets....

why, though?

his head hurts if he tries to think

“If you’re that grossed out by fucking a cripple,” snorts Miller, before licking the underside of his chin, the two fingers between his legs making his prostate throb hollowly inside of him. “How about you fuck my throat. You can close your eyes and think of Mother Russia. Or _him_ , if that’s what you’re into. It’ll be just like old times.”

Ocelot slams his head into his face with all the strength he has. He feels a spray of hot blood when Miller barks with laughter in his face.

“Now _that’s_ what I’m talking about!”

“Shut up,” he growls, climbing over him to straddle his shoulders, fishing his cock out of his underwear.

Miller shuts up, already mouthing the head of Ocelot’s cock, slobbering all over it like an old mutt.

Disgusting, and hot as hell. Ocelot’s head hurts so much he might vomit, but he still shoves his cock deep into Miller’s wet waiting mouth, right through his barely existing gag reflex and into his throat. The cheap gin coating his tongue tingles against his skin.

Ocelot fists Miller’s greasy hair in both hands and fucks his loose mouth hard, fast, unrelenting. Miller makes gurgling, choking sounds Ocelot knows all too well mean he’s _loving_ this.

Ocelot slides his thumbs under Miller’s jaw. Finding his carotid arteries and pressing into them is a matter of seconds. Miller doesn’t even realize he’s being put to sleep, he simply stops moving and goes completely slack, falling backwards off Ocelot’s still hard cock.

“Nothing happened,” says Ocelot slowly and carefully. A sliver of Miller’s milky eyes flutters through his lashes. He’s at his most receptive like this. “You came into my quarters drunk, embarrassed yourself.” He tucks Miller back into his pants, wipes drool and precome off his stubble. “I refused, respectfully, and left you to fall asleep.” His fingertips brush Miller’s cheek for only a moment. “And thus avoided the both of us making a very bad mistake we’d both regret in the morning. Let’s not talk about this.”

Miller makes a quiet sleepy sound, finally slipping into slumber, and Ocelot steps back. He puts on clothes and his gloves with some difficulty as his hands shake a little. Takes the small pouch of his special cigarettes from the drawer, steps into his boots and goes for a walk. A long, long walk, smoking, looking at the stars, waving at the Diamond Dogs on night shift.

When he comes back, lightheaded and a little chilly, his room is empty.

Well, of course it is. Nobody came in here all night. Nothing happened.

Ocelot falls asleep fast, but can’t stop waking up throughout the night, for some reason expecting a large warm body around him.

***

“Enough. That’s enough.”

It’s not like him to interrupt a good interrogation, but this is just painful to watch. Quiet would rather die than talk, and Ocelot can see the way the Boss is struggling to stay back instead of sweeping in to save her from this torment.

And in a way, Ocelot recognizes himself in the way she looked at him when he came into the room.

“She works for you, now. She’s in love with the legend.” Words are tumbling out of his mouth out of control. He needs to go, but Miller interjects.

“What makes you so sure?”

He glances at Quiet, still staring at the Boss. Back at Miller, back at _Kaz_ , tense and angry and sad behind his aviators.

“I was the same way. Once.” He does not break eye contact, even through the dark lenses.

Miller hesitates.

For all his faults and his mindless rage, he has never been stupid.

“But what if she’s a spy?”

“What if I’m a spy? Or you?” He almost laughs. As if being spies stopped them from working together, from being a force to be reckoned with, from... “We could go on all day.”

And then he storms off.

He has to go.

He has to get back to his quarters, now. He needs to take something, anything that will dull the mortification of having just said in front of everybody that he’s.... _fuck_.

He didn’t use to be so easy to upset. It’s all Miller’s fault.

This was supposed to be easy.

“Wait!”

Ocelot almost starts running. But he doesn’t. He slows down to let Miller catch up with him. He’s not entirely surprised at being bodychecked into the wall, crutch stabbed between his legs, an inch from his crotch.

“What the _fuck_ was that.”

“You botching an interrogation like a novice, and me saving your ass,” said Ocelot.

“You know what I mean.”

Ocelot stares, even though he can only see his reflection staring back at him. “Not even you are that dumb. You’ll get it eventually.”

“It’s just so fucking easy for you, isn’t it?” snarls Miller in his face, almost frothing. “Who cares what the fuck comes out of your mouth, tomorrow you’ll have forgotten about it! No consequences, no responsibility, not for Revolver _Fucking_ Ocelot!”

Ocelot blinks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Miller makes a frustrated noise, and lets the crutch drop. He pushes up his aviators before pinning Ocelot to the wall with his arm.

Of course, it’s not much of a pin, with only one arm. But Ocelot is curious what he meant by that and lets it slide.

“I’m not letting you forget this,” he mutters quietly, staring into Ocelot’s eyes. His pearly eyes shimmer, like an oil spill on marble.

Ocelot thinks he’s going to kiss him, but instead he goes for his neck, his lips soft only for a moment before he starts sucking on the skin, hard, with a hint of teeth.

“Miller, what are....”

He steps back, crouching awkwardly to pick up his crutch. Ocelot steadies him absently.

“Forget _that_ , if you can,” he says, nodding at his neck with his chin. Ocelot touches where he bit him, a spot that throbs pleasantly and that will be bright purple, unmistakable, and evident in less than an hour.

Miller turns to leave, but halfway to the end of the hallway he glances back.

“You can choose to forget if you really want. But if you don’t, stop by my quarters.” He nods sharply to let his glasses fall back on his nose. “I think we have a few things to discuss.”

Ocelot watches him go, hand still pressed to the hickey on his neck. He needs to go back to his quarters and cover it before it starts looking bruised. The last thing he needs is people asking, recruits giggling.

Once the door is closed behind him his hands move mechanically. He turns on the tape player on his desk, playing that one certain piece of music. He’s already arranging his supplies neatly in front of him, thinking of the many explanations of how he got a bruise on his neck, when he realizes he’s doing it.

How many times has he done this?

How much has he forgotten already?

He puts down the syringe in his hand and leaves. Why try to fight what is clearly something bomb-proof he’s put in place himself when there’s somebody who obviously knows what is going on?

“Surprised?” he says a few minutes later, when Miller opens his door, mouth agape.

“A bit, admittedly.” He steps back to let him in. He’s down to his shirt, and it isn’t even entirely stained with sweat. He smiles. “But kinda glad.”

Ocelot hasn’t seen him smile in almost a year, and there’s nothing he can do but step inside.

***

Later that night, Ocelot is exhausted. His eyes burn and his head throbs with a migraine. But he still clings stubbornly to alertness as he nods off against Miller’s bare back. Something in the back of his head itches, and scratches at him, telling him to go back to what’s familiar, the music, the words, the coolness of the needle in his flesh.

Ocelot slings an arm over Miller’s waist, letting his eyes slip closed.

He won’t forget. Not this time.

 


End file.
